


in sickness & in health

by aghamora



Series: Flaurel Ficlets [22]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5073088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m fine,” she tells him, her voice nasally and thick with congestion. “Why?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean why? You’re sick.”</p>
<p>Laurel scoffs, and moves past him to continue getting ready. “I am not <i>sick</i>. I take vitamin C every day.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	in sickness & in health

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: taking care of the other while sick.

At 7:03 AM, Frank awakes to the sound of Laurel getting ready, and sniffling.

The sound of her getting ready he’s used to; she spends the night at his place at least twice a week, now, and usually he doesn’t mind. But today he listens for a while, drifting in between sleep and consciousness, as she brushes her teeth, sniffling, and then walks into the bedroom to get dressed, sniffling, before finally walking out into the kitchen, the sound of sniffling following her wherever she goes.

After ten minutes of this, he frowns, rubs his eyes, and sits up, just in time for Laurel to step into the bedroom, pale and sweaty and looking like absolute hell. She’d gotten dressed and put on all her makeup as usual, but her eyes are dull, her shoulders slumped.

Concerned, Frank stands and walks over to her. “Hey. You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him, her voice nasally and thick with congestion. “Why?”

“What do you meanwhy? You’re sick.”

Laurel scoffs, and moves past him to continue getting ready. “I am not  _sick_. I take vitamin C every day.”

He gives her a look of exasperated disbelief. “Oh God, you’re one of the deniers. Seriously. You look like you just got hit by a bus.”

“Thanks. You know, every girl _loves_  hearing that first thing in the morning.”

“Okay, here’s a test. Breath through your nose for two minutes, and I’ll agree you aren’t sick.”

“Fine,” she bites out, though it comes out sounding more like fine- _d_.

Determined, she looks him square in the eyes, closes her mouth, and tries her hardest to breathe through her nose. But after thirty seconds or so she starts looking even worse – and he realizes she’s trying to hold her breath, because she cannot, in fact, breathe through her nose at all. Frank watches her like that, amused, until she starts looking positively blue, and only then does he grab her arm and urge her over to the bed.

“All right, all right. You’re going back to bed. You’re sick.”

“I’m not!” Laurel protests, and then promptly sneezes: a high-pitched, squeaky little sound that, admittedly, Frank finds kind of adorable. “I have class at nine, and I can’t miss Civpro or Property, and-”

“You look like you’re about to keel over. Now lay down. Call into work.”

“Call into work!” she exclaims. “I can’t; Annalise would kill me-”

“If you go to the office and infect everyone instead, then she’ll _definitely_  kill you. Now here.”

He holds out a thermometer to her, and she stares at it like it has the plague. “What?”

“Open up. You’re sweating.”

“No, I’m-” she exhales sharply. “I’m fine, Frank. Seriously.”

He rolls his eyes. This is starting to get really damn annoying really fast.

“That bull and you know it. Now take your temperature. Or do I have to come over there and do it for you?”

Laurel glowers, looking about as menacing as a five year-old, before snatching the white stick out of his hand, popping it in her mouth, and lying down on the bed, arms folded like a petulant child. At first she seems reluctant to relax, but quickly burrows herself underneath the blankets, shivering, and rolls onto her side.

Satisfied, Frank disappears for a while to shower, and when he steps back into the bedroom, Laurel holds out the thermometer for him to see, looking even more miserable than she had when he’d left.

“It says 102,” she manages through her coughing fit. “Frank… I think I’m sick.”

Frank can’t help but crack a smile. “Really?”

“Can you not make fun of me right now?” she mutters into the pillow. “I feel like I’m going to die.”

He chuckles and takes a seat next to her, setting a box of tissues on the nightstand. “Kinda melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“You should quarantine me.” She yanks the covers over her head. “I’ll just infect you, too.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m immune to getting sick.”

Her head pops back out, and she frowns. “But-”

“Just try to get some rest. Tissues are on the nightstand. Call me if you need anything.”

 

–

 

After calling into work, blowing her nose fifty thousand times as if in an effort to vanquish the invading mucus, and changing into one of his loose flannel shirts, Laurel lies down to sleep.

And as soon as she’s out, he may or may not call into work, too.

Okay – Frank knows he doesn’t have to. Annalise sounds suspicious on the phone, but after reminding her that he hasn’t taken a day off in years, she acquiesces. And yeah, he and Laurel are only semi-kind-of-dating, but it’s the whole in sickness and in health thing, right? He’s not about to let her suffer alone.

So he goes to the store and buys a bunch of cold medicine and cough drops and soup. He waits to cook said soup until he hears Laurel start to stir in the next room, and it’s just the shitty canned Campbell’s chicken noodle kind, sure, but it’s better than nothing. He pours it into a bowl, grabs a spoon, and makes his way into the bedroom, where Laurel lies in half-darkness, having closed the blinds earlier to sleep. An almost comically huge mountain of tissues has accumulated in his trashcan next to her, and started overflowing onto the floor.

“Feel any better?”

Bewildered, Laurel sits up when he takes a seat next to her, and doesn’t reach out to take the soup at first. Her hair is messy and his big, baggy shirt rumpled – but oddly enough, it’s kind of a good look on her. Minus the massive amount of snot dribbling out of her nose, that is.

“Frank?” she croaks, rubbing her eyes. “What’re you still doing here? What… what time is it?”

“Half past eleven. I called off work.”

“What?” Laurel gapes at him. “Y-you didn’t have to do that. I’m a big girl. I can take care of-”

A sneeze, followed by a brief fit of coughing, cuts her off. Frank grins, grabs a tissue, and holds it out to her. “Sure you can. Here. Made you soup. There’s cold medicine and cough drops in the kitchen if you want ‘em too.”

She reaches out to take the bowl of soup, staring into it contemplatively for a moment as the steam rises into her face.

“You did all this for me?” she finally asks, glancing up at him with a little smile.

He gives her an incredulous look. “All this? It’s one bowl of soup. From a can. Besides, you think I was gonna leave you alone like this?” She opens her mouth again to protest, but he cuts her off. “Just let me take care of you for once, okay?”

“Okay,” she mutters, sniffling again. “Yeah. All right. Thanks, for the soup.”

Laurel eats mostly in silence, occasionally laughing half-heartedly at the jokes he makes to cheer her up. By the time she’s done, a little of the light has come back to her eyes, and she sets the bowl aside, lying back down and rolling onto her side to face him.

“Thanks,” Laurel tells him again, with a yawn. “God, I must look like such a mess –  _achoo_!”

Frank chuckles, and dutifully hands her another tissue. “Just a little.”

“Hey!” she laughs, and smacks him on the arm. “You’re supposed to say I don’t.”

“Fine. I take it back. You look beautiful.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Well, now you’re just lying.”

“I mean it. Here, I’ll prove it. Kiss me.”

He leans over, but she jerks to the side to get away from him. “Don’t! I’m contagious. I’ll make you sick.”

“I told you, I don’t get sick.”

“Yeah, well, I said that too, and look at me now.”

Before she can protest again, Frank leans over, pecks her on the lips, and draws back swiftly. “See? I’m not afraid of your germs, babe.”

“Oh my God,” she laughs, covering her mouth with her hands. “You’re  _so_  going to get sick now.”

He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “Uh uh. Mark my words. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be fine – unlike you. Now go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

 

–

 

So. As it turns out, the whole kissing a highly infectious Laurel on the mouth thing might not have been the best idea.

It starts with a scratchy throat the next day, on Saturday morning. He doesn’t mention it to Laurel, who’s still languishing miserably in her sickbed, and by late afternoon it’s progressed into a low fever and sniffles and congestion. But he’s not going to blow his nose; that would be admitting defeat, and he’s not  _sick,_  for Christ’s sake. That’s ridiculous, and-

Shit. He sounds like Laurel now.

When she gets up and walks out into the kitchen for dinner, dressed in another one of his flannel shirts that extends down almost to her knees, Laurel stops, takes one look at his sweaty forehead, and narrows her eyes.

“You feel all right?” she asks, perceptive as ever.

He sniffs, almost unconsciously, and shakes his head. “Fine.”

A smile slowly spreads itself across her lips, and he frowns. _Dammit_.

“You’re sick,” Laurel observes, an almost triumphant air about her.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are!” she laughs, joining him in his chorus of sniffles. Still giggling, she walks over to where he stands at the stove and flings her arms around him. “I got you sick! See, I knew you weren’t immune!”

“All right, all right,” he tries to be gruff, but fails. “You happy now? I’m sick. You must have some kinda supergerm.”

“Me? You have no one to blame but yourself.  _You_ kissed  _me_.”

“Fair enough. The good news now, though?” He moves in closer, lowers his lips nearer to hers. “Now, I can kiss you all I want again.”

She looks skeptical. “Really? So… catching whatever terrible virus I have was worth it in the end?”

“Was it worth it?” he echoes, chuckling, as he leans in to kiss her again. “You bet it was.”

In approximately twelve hours, when the symptoms actually hit him and he starts to feel like shit, Frank’s ninety percent sure he’ll think differently. But for the time being…

Yeah. It’s worth it, for now at least.


End file.
